


The Colour of Passion

by mormoriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Champagne, John's Red Pants, Kissing, M/M, Mycroft appears briefly, Red Pants Monday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:27:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mormoriarty/pseuds/mormoriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What does the colour red mean to Sherlock? More importantly, what does it mean having to do with John? </p><p>Set on the 29th of September, or World Heart Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Colour of Passion

**Author's Note:**

> It's not that good, and World Heart Day seems kind of random, but it's the first time I've written anything for a contest, so cut me a little slack.  
> For FuckYeahJohnlockFic's Red Pants Contest: http://fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic.tumblr.com/post/32193680478/fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic  
> The italicized text denotes the information that Sherlock's brain supplies him (all credit goes to Wikipedia, information is not edited just taken out of various webpages), and parentheses are usually Sherlock's own thoughts.

He sipped at the glass of champagne in his hand, his long fingers gingerly caressing the underside of the delicate vessel. The sparkling amber liquid swirled inside the flute, leaving iridescent trails of foamy bubbles near the rim _There is an_ _initial burst of effervescence that occurs when the champagne contacts the dry glass on pouring. These bubbles form on imperfections in the glass that facilitate nucleation or, to a lesser extent, on cellulose fibres_ _from the wiping and drying of a glass…After primary fermentation and bottling, a second alcoholic fermentation occurs in the bottle_ … _Some use the term_ champagne _as a generic term for sparkling wine_.

“Are we going to be leaving anytime soon?” he whispered to John, who was currently trying (and failing, it was quite entertaining) to make small talk with the some Duke or other. John didn’t answer, and so Sherlock poked him in the ribs, nearly causing a small disaster (of the wardrobe kind) when John almost spilled his champagne down his front _._ Champagne was an interesting word to say, wasn’t it?

His boredom was stifling as always, at these dinners, and so he took to using people to fill his time and keep his interest. Deductions, _obviously,_ of the people that were mingling on the floor. Mingling was another fun word to say…

 

A woman; emerald dress and ruby earrings, early thirties most likely, must be one of Anthea’s or whatever her name was for today (quite tiring to remember and easily deleted information). Well, one of her girls/one of Mycroft’s assistants. Uncommitted to her boyfriend, no wait- girlfriend, who was not actually here, recently attempted to quit smoking, and was currently looking for a one-night-stand from a person in this room, later tonight. Plus she had the most god-awful laugh in the history of…forever.

A waiter; in his late twenties to early thirties, black and white uniform with a vermillion bowtie, as specified by Mycroft (of course). Dimly lit bathroom at home, judging from the slight stubble left over, and left-handed _Left-handedness is more common in men than in women_ (My John is left-handed)as the stubble was on the right side, vain as in his perfectly sculpted eyebrows, and definitely jealous of all these rich and powerful stuffed into one room as he kept glancing away with a slight frown.

A king (of some small island, I can’t be bothered to remember); late forties, maroon satin sash. Lived a very comfortable life while his subjects probably starved, but was pretending the welfare of his country was much better than it really was.

Brother of a coke addict in a burgundy waistcoat here, a petite blonde with rosy lipstick _According to the British zoologist, Desmond Morris, the widespread practice of enhancing the red colour of the lips was due to a biological analogy with the labia, because these flush red and swell when women are aroused,_ a reformed kleptomaniac _K_ _leptomania is presently classified in psychiatry as an impulse control disorder_ and a crimson pocketbook there, studded black shoes with red soles _Christian Louboutin **,** born 7 January 1963, is a French footwear designer whose footwear has incorporated shiny, red-lacquered soles that have become his signature _ that probably cost more than John and Sherlock’s flat worn by the person next to him, and well, Mycroft must have been making a speech as the guests lifted their glasses in a toast _A toast is a ritual in which a drink is taken as an expression of honor or goodwill_.

Was there some theme here that he hadn’t been made aware of? Almost every single person in this room was wearing an item of bright red, (even Mycroft, with an uncharacteristically whimsical red tie without, _gasp,_ a tie pin) except for Sherlock. He raised his champagne flute half-heartedly, spotting John, who hadn’t moved much but was no longer by his side. Wait, John’s red item of clothing…

The room around them echoed Mycroft’s words (something that had to do with life and his love of food probably, knowing Mycroft, who was _annoyingly_ actually losing weight) with the same sentiment, clanging their glasses in togetherness. “Dinner will be served in five minutes. Enjoy it,” his brother’s simpering voice declared. Mycroft always sounded simpering to him, no matter what. Perhaps it was just Sherlock…

 

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock whined, coming behind John to speak softly into his ear. “Let’s go.” His arm snaked around John’s waist possessively, rumpling up his suit (which he looked positively delicious in) a bit, but John didn’t notice.

“But we haven’t had dinner, Sherlock,” John reminded him, his tone maybe a little bit patronizing. Okay, very much patronizing. No matter what John thought, he was not a small child.

“Let’s go, _please_?” When The Magic Word didn’t even make John move, Sherlock asked curiously instead, “Are you wearing your red?”

And John blushed, turning the most fetching shade of crimson, his cheeks heating and his pulse elevating, but why, Sherlock had no idea. _Blushing is t_ _he involuntary reddening of a person's face due to embarrassment or emotional stress, though it has been known to come from being love-struck, or from some kind of romantic stimulation. It is thought that blushing is the result of an overactive sympathetic nervous system...Facial skin has more capillary loops per unit area and generally more vessels per unit volume than other skin areas. In addition, blood vessels of the cheek are wider in diameter, are nearer the surface, and visibility is less diminished by tissue fluid…_ Was this “red” theme not to be discussed? For Sherlock, never one for a party, had no idea of the social etiquette one was to follow at a formal dinner, especially one hosted by his brother, with or without a theme.

 

“So you noticed,” John finally said, after apparently calming down some, his voice sounding a bit breathless.

“Of course I noticed, John. It’s practically my job. It is my job, actually. To notice.” He paused. “But once again, if you didn’t hear me, are you wearing your red?” he repeated. “Whatever it’s for…”

John avoided his eyes, but spoke.

“The red is for heart health awareness- today’s the 29th of September, Sherlock. It’s World Heart Day?” _The heart is a myogenic muscular organ found in all animals with a circulatory system, which pumps blood throughout the blood vessels by repeated, rhythmic contractions. The term_ cardiac _means "related to the heart" and comes from the Greek καρδιά, kardia, for "heart"_. John looked at him a bit funny, sidestepping his original question yet again.

“Right-o. Heart Day, must have deleted it.” (But why would Mycroft have a dinner for World Heart Day? Oh who cares?) “Bit awkward that I’m the only one not wearing red…not even red socks like you must be…”

“Nope. Not red socks. Something much more private,” John corrected him, winking slyly. (Not red socks, more private, red…underwear? On my John?)

His eyes widened. “Can we leave now, then?”

 

Red underwear did sound intriguing; after all, anything red seemed a bit uncharacteristic for his John, who seemed to prefer (and stuck to) the tried-and-true basic no-fuss colours. Navy, cream, beige, black, grey- but certainly not bright red _Red is the colour of blood and strawberries_ (strawberries and also the colour of John’s favourite strawberry jam and one of my dressing gowns). _It is next to orange at the end of the visible spectrum of light, and is commonly associated with danger, sacrifice, passion, love, anger, and in China and many other cultures, with happiness._

But Sherlock also associated the colour red with arousal, in addition to passion. Perhaps John did too.

 

“Dinner, Sherlock. Regular people eat regular, routine meals,” reminded John, who took another drink of his champagne and made a move to head towards their assigned table.

“Well, we’re hardly regular people.” Sherlock smiled. “But no, I must see this now. Red is…my favourite colour, don’t you know?” (Is that what people have? Favourite colours? John’s favourite colour was the colour of Sherlock’s eyes, he had said once, and Sherlock had smiled and kissed him softly) Sherlock smiled again, this time a bit awkwardly. And if he did actually have a favourite colour, red might be it.

He could just imagine the underwear- maybe deep crimson silk, smooth to the touch, but John would not be one as extravagant to wear silk underpants. Red plaid boxers seemed too juvenile, especially underneath formal black dress trousers. Perhaps cotton briefs then, of a low-rise cut so that the waistband probably rested comfortably against his hip bone _The hip bone, innominate bone, pelvic bone, or coxal bone is a large, flattened, irregularly shaped bone_ , the bright scarlet beautiful against his golden skin, the red material stretched over his (very, very nice) arse and his (once again, very, very nice) cock… _mmmm_.

 

He tugged at his collar; the room was suddenly feeling very crowded and very stuffy. All of the combined human body heat, probably. _Normal human body temperature, also known as_ normothermia _or_ euthermia _is on average 37.0 °C (98.6 °F)._ He certainly felt warmer than that.

He blinked. John blinked back. Sherlock attempted to blink Morse code for _Go;_ \- - . - - - , but he didn’t think that John caught it, maybe just thinking that Sherlock had something in his eye.

“Are you alright?” Now John looked worried, stopping and just staring at Sherlock.

“Just a feeling bit… _hot_ ,” he said quietly, with exaggerated smoldering of the eyes and a slight smirk to emphasize just how _hot_ he was feeling. “Now can we go?”

“Erm.” John hated to leave things that they were invited to, but he also was twisting the second and third fingers of his right hand, like he always did when he was going to give in to Sherlock. (Mission accomplished. Wait, isn’t that from some spy movie John made me watch?)

“Hot, John. Now. _Hot_.” John looked like he might fall over at any moment from indecision. “ _Hot and bothered_ ,” Sherlock added, licking at his suddenly-dry lips.

“Right then, we’re leaving.” John answered quickly, seeming to have finally made up his mind. “Um, will Mycroft-?”

“He’ll know. Or he’ll find out, via his numerous PAs or CCTV. But who cares? Not me. All I want to do is find out what material looks best stretched across your muscular arse, straining against your hard, thick cock, and then later, strewn around our bedroom floor,” Sherlock practically purred into his ear, his voice mellifluous and his warm breath ghosting over John’s neck. John’s eyes seemed to have dilated, black pupils pushing his blue-hazel irises into a thinner ring.

\--------

The ride back home seemed to last for eternity, both of them antsy with fingers tapping and eyes staring and lip biting as neither wanted to start something that they couldn’t finish, especially in the back of cab. They did have some modesty, after all.

 

But as soon as they stumbled up the stairs, the key barely turning in the lock of the door, Sherlock pushed John against the back of the door to meet his lips in a searing kiss.

“Mmm… _clothes_ , John,” Sherlock whispered somewhere along John’s throat where he was licking a path down to the dip where his sternum and his clavicle met. “Or to the bedroom first?”

“Bedroom,” John agreed, taking Sherlock by the hand and leading him to their room (my old bedroom). It was with bated breath that they stripped, pulling off suit jackets and unbuttoning shirts hurriedly. Sherlock folded and hung up his suit jacket and trousers, before turning back to John.

John was still taking off his shirt, his fingertips lingering the buttonholes before swiftly pulling it off and exposing his bare chest (which was nothing new to me, of course).

 

They knew each other so intimately, were so familiar with each other’s bodies, after years as flat-mates and months of being boyfriends/partners. The way their personalities complemented each other was in every shared breath and each second spent in the company of the other. The way that they fit together as a whole, emotionally, intellectually, and sexually, was ingrained in every cell and every thought that passed both John’s and Sherlock’s mind.

He then picked up John’s tie, a strip of midnight blue silk that had paired nicely against his grey dress shirt rubbing smoothly between his thumb and forefinger as John reached up to pull Sherlock’s shirt off. The glimpse of a white elastic waistband hemming the sliver of crimson that showed when John’s undershirt lifted up was enough to make Sherlock’s mouth water, as John’s deft fingers slid the material from his shoulders. He had to see John’s _red_ , now...

 

 


End file.
